The Right Kind of Wrong
by Devilzzz
Summary: They loathe each other. No, really. It's not even attraction. Well, maybe a bit...or maybe massive portions...DHR.
1. Default Chapter

****

The Right Kind of Wrong

Differences. That's what sets us apart. Our houses, our colors, ourselves. I wouldn't have it any other way. I loathe her, I do. It started as just a game. It was just a game, after all. Sniping at each other in the hallways then sneaking in empty classrooms and kissing, her hands tangled in my hair. I loved it - I loved the way she fumbled clumsily with my buttons and how she unzipped my pants and I loved how she gave me little touches and little kisses that still linger their heat on my skin. 

But even though it was just a game, a little thing she did to take a break, I hated the way she disguised herself. The way when I insulted her friends, she would stand up for them, even for that half-giant oaf, Hagrid, or whatever his name was. I hated the way she leaned on Potter or Weasley, how she whispered in their ears during lunch or dinner, how they were so close that every time they touched, it was just like breathing.

I wanted to do that. I even dreamed of several occasions where I had told the Sorting Hat I wanted to be in Gryffindor, because maybe then, maybe then whenever she touched me or kissed me or held me, it'd be breathing, it'd be completely natural. And that my name would roll off her tongue with a dreamy look on her face instead of hatred plastered over it. We've never gone all the way, because she's far too innocent for that. But sometimes I feel like she's watching me, trying to paint me a different color so that every flaw that is visible is gone from her vision.

I never want to paint her another color. I wish she wasn't a mudblood, I really do, but I can't change the blood that runs through her very skin. And even when I hold her, I hardly notice it. But when I look at her closely, I sometimes feel disgusted, images of her filthy blood on my mind. I feel so guilty afterwards, because I am just leading her on, and what would father say if he knew I was contaminating herself? She's not that bad-looking, and she proved that sensationally at our fourth year, when she came arm-in-arm with Viktor Krum.

I hated her even more for that. After all, how dare such a mudblood be beautiful? It wasn't supposed to be possible. Her hair was wavy and brown, like curly tendrils of waterfalls, and her lips shimmered as she cuddled closely to the massive Krum, her brown eyes glinting from the reflection of the people around her. I am getting too sentimental here, anyways. She's nothing but a tool I use to get what I want. She's close to Potter, which is a very, very dignified excuse. 

What better way to get my hands on him by manipulating her to bring him to me first?

She's just a game. A game that I play.

I do loathe her.

Really.

I might faint. I just wrote a **_PG-13_** D/HR.

Dear Heavens, the world must be ending...


	2. Just A Little

****

The Right Kind of Wrong

I hate doing this. I hate demolishing my future, my studies and risking my friendships just for him. I hate it. But I can't help it at all. Last week we met, we met in the back of the library and kissed until he had me on the table and accidentally shoved over various books. And it was only when we heard Madame Pince's upcoming footsteps that we stopped, and his leg was already caught in between the legs of my robes. Whatever I do, I am never giving him my innocence. No matter what he does, I'll never go over the edge.

He's just a game that I play. And I will win. I'll hurt him like he's hurt me, I'll hurt him like he's hurt my friends. I want to make him cry for me, I want him to want me like he's never wanted someone before. And when he needs me, when he needs me like the bittersweet taste of alcohol dissolving in his mouth, I'll cut off his supply.

Oh, how I loathe him. That quirky smirk of his, the way he always used and still teases me, judges me by my blood, does anything to spread the word that I am not worthy.

Oh, how I loathe him. How cunning he is, and what a great figure he has - wait, that's not the point. The point is, no matter what length of his features are beatific, it doesn't necessarily mean that I am attracted to him.

Not at all. No, never. I could never be attracted to him. It's perfectly excusable for a girl my age with growing hormones to watch her enemy's backside when he walks. Perfectly natural.

Really.

It's natural to envision his lips pressed against mine whenever he gazes at me and I can feel his eyes penetrating over my body.

He's just a game.

It's natural that I feel tingling sensations and imagine him against me and doing things more than kissing. It's natural to feel my heart pound and burn whenever he comes into a room and smirks at me or when he slicks back a strand of silver-blonde from his hair.

It's natural.

I am not attracted to him at all.

Well...maybe just a little.


End file.
